


Expectations

by katiebuttercup



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, SO SORRY, a teeny tiny light at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-09 18:42:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11674911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katiebuttercup/pseuds/katiebuttercup
Summary: "But would it be love or lust? Interesting question. Anyways I think Sherlock's not quite there yet for love with anyone"





	1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: characters belong to Conan Doyle and bbc 

She hasn't moved from the door jam. In comparison Sherlock has moved from chair to window to the doors separating the kitchen and living area. Twice.

He wishes he were high. 

He wishes he could divorce himself from feeling. Molly watches him, eyes dark and unreadable but kind. Always so kind. 

He wishes he could close the box Eurus opened

He's going to hurt her.

Again. 

"Molly," she instinctively shifts her weight at her name anticipating the beginning of a conversation he's been trying to start for six and a half minutes.

"I..." all of his vaunted cleverness leaves him. He doesn't know how to do this. He cut himself off from feeling for exactly this reason.

"I can't love you, I don't know how."

"Sherlock, it's okay," 

It feels like the slap she had given him in his mind palace. His brain immediately focuses at her tone. 

"What?"

"I'm not asking anything from you, I never have and I won't start now." Molly's tone is careful, neutral. 

"But..." he's spluttering, "but you love me and I said... this is what you people do"

"I know what you said. I know how I feel but it doesn't change anything. Sherlock I know you okay? I know you can't do this." 

How does she do this? How does she know? He uses his abilities as a shield to keep people away, picking them apart before they can do it to him. But no matter how much he picks away at her, deduced her, pushes her away, she just squares her shoulders. Soldiers on. He's only just realised she has done the same to him. 

"Look I'm not going anywhere," Molly says, she sounds resigned but resolved. "You have family stuff to work through, maybe you should focus on that"

"Family stuff" may be the understatement of the century, Sherlock thinks.

Sherlock may have unlocked emotion but it doesn't help him. Molly needs something from him and he can't give it to her. Not yet. And for the first time that knowledge hurts him. He has failed her. 

Again. 

"Can I just ask one favour?"

Sherlock almost gives himself whiplash nodding his assent. 

Molly fiddles with the edge of her cardigan, chewing her lip. When she looks at him, she looks more fragile then he's ever seen her.

"I...I need some time. Alone. So maybe if you could..."

"If I need anything from BARTS I'll send John," Sherlock promises. It feels bitter in his mouth but he swallows it down with his heart that's somehow lodged in his throat. It feels like he's losing Molly all over again. 

It's going to be a miserable few months without Molly in his life he realises. He moves closer, if he faces months without Molly he needs something to tide him over. One last binge before sobriety but Molly backs up, she hits the frame of the door with an audible thunk. 

"Molly," he breathes her name like a prayer. He cups her face and feels the tremor beneath her skin as she struggles to keep from crying. He tries to dredge up the words, tries desperately to make himself be what she needs. 

Molly's fingers slide over his wrists, he thinks she's going to push him away but her fingers flutter restlessly against him, "I'm not very brave, Sherlock so please..." 

He has to let her go. His muscles feel locked in place. He's scared. What if he never gets to touch her again? What if this is his only chance? 

What is the use of his heart if he can't give it to someone who loves him?

It takes several deep breaths but he manages to break away from her. He feels sick, the worst kind of come down. The hole he spiralled down after Mary opens before him, taunting him. But then he looks at Molly, large dark eyes centering him and then he can breathe. 

They both take a long, tremoulous breath, then she turns to go. 

"Molly," 

She doesn't turn around but she stops. Listening. 

"I'm not going anywhere either." He makes a vague gesture with his hand even though her back is to him. 

"Just something to remember"

He doesn't remember falling back only his favourite chair, only the burn of tears that scald his face as they fall.


	2. Chapter 2

"You alright?" John settles into his armchair fingers interlocking around a mug of tea. 

Sherlock makes a sound of affirmation, he takes a long draught from his own mug. The liquid burns on the way down. 

"You did the right thing," John continues. Sherlock lets out a bark of what could be derision. At himself or the world in general John doesn't know.

"Funny, it feels exactly the opposite of the right thing." 

Sherlock rubs the heel of his hand into his eye trying to dislodge the grit accumulated there. It's not tears even though his eyes burn. 

"Stop me if I try--" Sherlock voice creaks, he reaches for the mobile, fingers flexing as he does so. He all but pushes the phone at John. 

"You want to call Molly?" John asks, even though he knows. His heart aches for his best friend. He'd hug him but he knows Sherlock is in no mood to be comforted. It might break him. 

Sherlock nods, it looks like his head weighs a hundred pounds.

"Maybe you should--"

Sherlock shakes his head, "No! I'll say something--I'll take it back" his head falls back against the headrest of his chair, "I want to take it back,"

He squints at John, "shouldn't you be saying something vaguely nauseating right now?"

John shrugs, "I don't think hallmark has a card that covers it,"

There is humour in his laugh now. Barely. 

John clears his throat, broaches a topic he knows will hurt his best friend.

"How's Molly?"

Sherlock's jaw works, pain visible in every line of his face and body and John feels the breath leave him. God, he really does love Molly. 

It had been an abstract idea, lost in the pain and horror of the night. Now scrubbed clean, with the clarity of time the pain was still left on Sherlock's face.

It was like meeting Sherlock all over again. 

"Molly is--the paragon of virtue as ever. Stiff British upper lip and everything," he sounds bitter. 

Sherlock stands sudddnly, a whirl of movement and then he is holding the back of his chair. 

"I'm not this man, John. I'm not good I'm not sweet," he breathes heavily through his mouth and nose. 

"I'm selfish and I want. So. Much. With each word he grips the material of his chair in a vice like grip. 

"I. Want. Her" 

John shuts his eyes, he wishes Mary were here but for the first time not for his benefit or Rosie. For Sherlock. She would know what to do. 

But wanting was different from loving. 

Sherlock's long lean body convulses as if in pain and now John gets out of his seat, wraps his arms around his friend.

"I know," John pats him awkwardly but lovingly. He remembers Sherlock's embrace after he had confessed to cheating on Mary. 

It's cold comfort, he knows. But it is what it is.


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you for all your lovely comments I read and love them all

It drags on for months. John dutifully goes back and forth between Baker Street and BARTs with only token annoyance and Sherlock pretends he's not waiting on any word on Molly. 

In the meantime he attempts to kick his heart into gear. He starts analytically, measuring Molly's skills as an asset, trying to trick his heart into doing what he wants. But his love for Molly is toobbig, he shies away from it. It feels too much, an overload of emotion like a shot of pure cocaine. His body is ill equipped to deal with it.

So he locks Molly away- somewhere safe and focuses on what he can face.

Working with Eurus, playing violin with her feels like opening a chest long buried, it hurts, but it's a good hurt, a release. He talks a lot about John with Eurus, let's John's influence on him colour the tenor of their music. He wonders what having a friend might have done for Eurus.

He tries harder with Mycroft, a week ago he made a comment about Mycroft's weight and the smirk his brother levelled at him was almost of old.

He loves Rosie. It's impossible not to, he found himself helpless in the glow of her unencumbered love for him. He doesn't understand it but Rosie loves him, smiles at him. When he shows her is experiments (the safe ones) she gurgles her pleasure, reaching chubby hands out to touch which he gently disuades. 

It is perhaps with Rosie that he comes closest to thinking about Molly. Sometimes when Rosie comes back from Molly's Sherlock holds her close, imagining Molly's arms rocking Rosie to sleep, tries to see if Molly's smell lingers on her clothes.

It's to Rosie Sherlock confesses his sins, his shortcomings. His love. It's with Rosie that he feels closest to Molly, and that hot, burning thing in his chest flickers into a flame on the hearth. 

He's in the lab when he sees Molly for the first time in a handspan of months, hunched over a microscope and trying to ignore the pain of a knife wound inflicted two days ago on a case.

They both stop and stare at the same time, and he feels guilty, like he's trespassing. This is her space and he's encroaching on it. 

"The Rota said you were off for two days," Sherlock says into the silence. Molly shoves her hands into her lab coat, and Sherlock swallows hard. He doesn't know if it's possible to have a kink related to a piece of clothing but Molly's lab coat had featured pretty heavily in most of his fantasises. What she wore under it varied greatly depending on how much he wants to torture himself.

"I'm not supposed to be in--I just didn't want to be in the flat," 

She moves closer, keeping the table between them and Sherlock tries to pretend he's not favouring his right side. If she knew he was injured she'd try to help--she's try to touch him-and that would be bad, any pretense lost. Sherlock wasn't good at refusing temptatation. This is how good he knows how to be. 

It's a particularly weak showing. 

"Are you--" he clears his throat. "Mycroft got all the cameras out of there I promise,"

Molly shakes her head, "I know there aren't any cameras in my house it just feels like there are. I guess I miss my privacy I always wonder if someone's watching me," 

She looks at Sherlock out of the corner of her eye, warily. She knows he saw her on that awful day. 

"If you wanted to move I'm sure Mycroft could help-"

"I don't want your brother's help," there is a bite to Molly's otherwise gentle tone. He hears the extension, 'I don't want your help either' 

There is a silence, Molly bites her bottom lip, looks away guiltily. 

"Sorry. Its just the more I think about it the more angry I get," Molly says. Sherlock's grip on the underside of the table makes his muscles ache but it's better then touching her. 

If he touches her he won't be able to stop. 

"Molly...I..." it's not as difficult as he expected, he can do this, not easily but the feeling of ripping away skin and bone doesn't appear so he forges on.

She knows what he's doing, she backs away, an arm stretched out to keep him at bay.

"Sherlock please don't"

"I. Love. You." 

He's not saying it for her he realises or not just for her. He's saying it for himself, confronting that aching, howling thing that keeps him up at night, that makes him ache for her. 

It's like the final moments of a case, the euphoria of getting it right, of being right. He's faced the hardest case of his life, the one deduction he couldn't solve. 

He's deduced himself. 

It feels wonderous.

Molly blinks, swallows hard, he can see the shine in her eyes. He stands, walks the length of the table until he's beside her cupping her face until his forehead meets hers. 

"Sherlock, don't," he catches a tear with his thumb, wipes it away with care. 

She pushes at him, tiny hands inadvertently touching his still healing wound and he lets out a sound that's an abbreviated scream. 

"Oh God where are you hurt?" Molly's taking most of his weight, forcing him onto a stool as he gasps for air.

He wordlessly points to his side and hesitantly Molly pushes past his coat and shirt, analysing the bandage. 

She scans it quickly, happy with its precision. 

She doesn't ask how or why just lets him lean heavily against the table until his breath evens out again. 

"Can I have some water?" Sherlock asks when he could talk without a spasm of pain. It's a brief relief to be alone, and Sherlock takes the opportunity to sprawl inelegantly against the table, uncaring of what image he may be projecting. 

Molly came back moments later with a mug, he takes it greatfully, frowning as Molly makes sure their fingers dont so much as graze. 

"You were supposed to say it back," Sherlock says when he's finished, putting the mug on the table. 

"Isn't that how it goes? I say it, you say it, the orchestra swells?"

He's being obnoxious, his mind flashing back to his night with Faith--with Eurus. She'd called him sweet. Even at his worst, his most selfish, Eurus had seen the core of him. Like Molly.

Molly picks up the mug, picks up the metaphorical baton and begins to go back to her office now she knows Sherlock isn't going to keel over. Or because she knows he can't get up and follow her. 

"Did you bring your violin?" Molly says, she sounds not cross but not happy. Sherlock still riding the euphoria or figuring it out frowns. 

"I've done something not good?" He wants to text John. 

Molly takes a deep breath, fingers braced against her files. "No, Sherlock I just...I don't know what you are doing, you show up here, injured no less probably escaped from hospital where you should be recovering--"

He scowls at how accurate she is, escaped might be a bit of an overstatement. Not much but a bit. 

Probably. 

He looks away, jaw working, he feels very exposed,

"Are you going to say it back?" It feels very lonely here on this ledge, higher and more dangerous then the ledge he'd stepped off to fake his death. 

He hasn't felt this alone in years, more naked then The Woman when he first met her. Somehow waiting for her response was somehow worse when there wasn't a ticking clock in the background. 

"You know I love you," Molly says, she's flicking through the files, uncaps the lid of her biro and bends to start work.

"I said.."

"I know you said the words," Molly says, "but, it's like...." her tongue darts out for a second as she thinks, "like playing music, you always know when someone really loves music, it's not because they play perfectly but because they have the passion for it,"

"Not Bach, you clearly don't understand it" Eurus words reverberate through his mind. 

"You think I don't mean it?"

Molly takes a deep breath, "I think," she says deliberately, "you would say or do anything to protect those you love and that's why I love you Sherlock. That's why I helped you fake your death, why I've stuck with you when you've hurt me and humiliated me. That's why I forgive you for that awful phone call. That's how I know that you can't love me. Not in the way that I want"

"You haven't exactly given me a chance," Sherlock's voice is clipped, he should soften it but he doesn't. Can't. Not until she sees what she's done to him, until she realises that when she left Baker Street she took his heart with her without him noticing. 

"I don't know how to do this, I'm no closer to knowing how to love you then I was six months ago I just know that I do, love you. For better or for worse you have my heart," he levers himself up to standing, wincing. He wants to press his hand to his wound but stifles the urge. She's seen him as weak as he will allow her to see. 

He points vaguely at her, feeling the last of the pain killers from the hospital wearing thin. He feels thin. 

"Just take good care of it alright?"

"Sherlock!" She's in his arms, or more accurately he's in hers. As he blacks out he hears, 

"I love you," 

* 

Sherlock wriggles his shoulders as he wakes, whatever is beneath him is cold although his head is cushioned. He frowns, eyes focusing on his surroundings. The ceiling swims in front of him. 

Sherlock frowns, scanning his prone body with betrayal. 

"Molly?" 

It's all he can think about, everything is secondary to the need to see her.

She is with him in a second and Sherlock takes her hand in his without thinking.

"You fainted," Molly tells him when he scrunches his face at her askance. Her tone hardens slightly, a reproving note in her voice, "blood loss from too much movement"

Ah

The stab wound. 

Something flickers at the edges of his memory, "You said it back," a surge of quiet triumph fills him, a smug grin forming, Molly's face attempts a scowl but never quite manages it. She's happy. He's made her happy. 

"I think the blood loss has made you delirious," Molly says. "I should call John," 

"No," he puts his other hand on top of the one holding hers. "Just stay with me, please" 

Molly laughs, "we can't just lie here on the floor of the lab!"

Sherlock groans as he sits up, Molly's hands move to wrap around him, supporting him. He realises he could get used to having Molly's hands on him. He'd rather gather more information when his body was able to enjoy it, and could return the favour in full. 

He leans into Molly, letting her take his weight, she's surprisingly strong, they manage to get to their feet, although Sherlock certainly does nothing to quicken the process in no hurry to have Molly pull away. He's malingering, a little. 

"Lets get you back to Baker Street,"' Molly is leading then through the double doors their hands still clasped together she doesn't flinch when his arm encircles her waist or when he pulls her closer then needed. She's just there, curves fitting to him seamlessly, he presses a kiss to the top of her head, nuzzling against the silk of her hair.


End file.
